Sparring
by AliasPseudo
Summary: The purpose of training is to tighten up the slack, toughen the body, and polish the spirit. " - Morihei Ueshiba - A series of one-shots about sparring and what it means to the pilots.
1. A Young Boy VS Odin Lowe

**A Young Boy Versus Odin Lowe**

By APs

**A/N** – So, this is going to be a series of one-shots and, yes, I am going to do them for all of the pilots (Heero got to go first by virtue of being pilot 01). I'm writing these when I have time and don't feel like working on anything more concrete. That being said, there is no set update schedule.

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

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It is not living that matters, but living rightly.

---Socrates

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"Good, Boy!" Odin laughed, easily catching the child's small fist in his large, artful hand. Deep azure eyes looked up through sweat damp bangs, a small triumphant smile threatening at the praise. The assassin smiled, too, then wrenched the Boy about by his arm, "Good, but you need to be faster. That's not going to help you survive."

The boy struggled and Odin let him slip away before he could hurt himself by dislocating his shoulder. The Boy faced him again, sharp, calculating, trying so hard to please. Odin wanted to call it a night and head back to the quaint little cabin, but the Boy always tried so hard and he wanted to go again.

"Once more, then?" Odin decided to compromise with himself. The Boy nodded with such conviction that a fresh smile brushed the assassin's lips. They watched each other for long minutes, dissecting shifts and eyes, trying to read the other's mind. Happily, the foundling's days of rushing headlong into these exercises were well in the past. Of course, that never stopped him from making the first move.

Odin went on the defensive. He liked putting the Boy through his paces, letting him tire himself out. It only took a few contacts for the man to notice something was different. The Boy was faster, hitting harder, and Odin was losing ground. A smile ghosted across the Boy's face when Odin barely managed to block one of his kicks. His blows were hailing like fury, now, with desperate hope and spurred on by the confusion on his teacher's face. A tiny fist connected with Odin's jaw. The answering blow came so fast, the Boy didn't even have time to register his victory before he was driven into the ground. Bounced twice.

Well, that had been different. Odin had never had to strike back before; certainly had never expected to be forced to out of reflex. He waited for the Boy to get up. When his charge didn't budge, he went and rolled him onto his back. Deep blue eyes stared at the sky.

"Staying down, Boy?"

"I can't win," the Boy theorized.

Odin smiled, "You're not supposed to win. It takes a long time before you can learn anything from winning."

"If I can't win, I die," the Boy explained, echoing Odin's own words, "I'm dead."

The assassin rubbed at the faint sting along his jaw, "Yeah, but you died well and sometimes that's more important."

The Boy finally looked at him, serious and silent, trying to comprehend. Odin was restructuring the Boy's training in his head. The Boy learned quicker than he'd thought initially. Not a bad thing. Maybe he should start him on weapons.

"Come on, Boy," Odin bid as he started toward the cabin, "Dinner, then bed. We're leaving in the morning."


	2. A Street Rat VS Solo

**A Street Rat Versus Solo**

By APs

**A/N** – Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

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It seems that fighting is a game where everybody is the loser.

---Zora Neale Hurston

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"Com' on, then," the blonde boy called Solo taunted, jerking his head to the side. The bone thin child opposite him just blinked violet eyes too big for its head at him like he'd sprouted antennae. Solo barked a harsh laugh, "Ya stupid, kid? You wanna learn ta fight, right."

"I ain't stupid," the kid growled out, surprisingly low and gruff. From the mass of filthy chestnut hair and large eyes, most people generally mistook him for a little girl. It had gotten him out of more trouble than he liked to admit.

"Sure," Solo chuckled, thumbing his nose. "Well, take a swing."

The urchin just blinked at him again, as though the mere idea were horrifying, couldn't possibly be what the older boy was actually suggesting. Solo had taken a liking to him, mostly because he was good at getting himself out of trouble, one less thing for the gang leader to have to worry about. No one challenged Solo.

"Com' on. Swing," the blonde repeated, quickly losing his humor, shifting dangerously. The boy felt his hackles rise, breath coming quicker as he weighed his options. Running seemed pretty good just then. He wagged his head, making his chestnut rat's nest swing behind him. He barely saw the fist that plowed into his cheek. He rolled with the world, feet finding ground before he found up, iron in his mouth. He tried to dash away, too late, another fist found his stomach, bouncing him off the rough alley wall.

"Can't run all the time," Solo's voice taunted. The kid growled, still doubled over against the wall, tears starting to trail silently down a rapidly bruising cheek. Solo laughed again, "Boys don't cry, kid. Yer a boy, right?"

With a feral cry, the kid sprang from the wall. Dug a sharp elbow into Solo's stomach and they went down in a cloud of fists and dirt and curses. Blows fell like rain, poorly aimed, but in droves. They rolled, gouging and tearing and biting. Finally, Solo got a handful of the kid's hair and yanked hard as a knife flashed to the kid's neck. The smaller kid instantly went limp.

"'Nuff," the gang leader growled thickly around his smashed nose. The kid glared at him, one eye already swelling. Solo gave the whelp a good shake of the scruff.

"Le' go," he boy rasped.

"Say I win," Solo prompted.

"You gotta knife," the kid protested.

Solo grinned at him, a gruesome sight considering the blood on his face, "Fight ta win, or die, small fry."

The smaller boy ground his teeth, "Ya win."

"Wha's dat?" Solo grinned, yanking the kid's head back and laying the cold flat of the knife against the side of his neck.

"Ya win! Ya win, dammit" the kid bleated faster.

"Dat's right," Solo nodded, shoving the kid back a few feet. They eyed each other for a long minute before the kid looked away, spitting blood to the side. Only then did Solo put away his little knife and fix his nose with a sick pop. The kid shrank back against the alley wall, glance flitting about, ready to bolt. He jumped at the sound of Solo's voice, "Did good for a first go, kid."

Violet eyes blinked at him again, "I didn't do nothing."

"Swung back," Solo shrugged.

"You gotta knife," the street rat accused.

"So, get a knife," Solo scowled back, "Ain't nobody gonna go easy on us, kid."

A sharp smile crawled across the smaller boy's face, equal parts fearless and crazy, "S'pose not, Solo."

"S'pose not," the blonde echoed, grinning back. "Let's get back."

The kid nodded, hissing as he started to move. Solo walked stiffly beside him, wiping at blood with the back of his hand. The kid pulled out a tooth, "Fighting sucks."

Solo's laughter rang loud and clear through the alleys of L2.

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**Hugglesbunny – **Thank you! Hope you enjoy the rest of the series.


	3. Nanashi VS Midii

**Nanashi Versus Midii**

By APs

**A/N** – Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

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Nature is often hidden, sometimes overcome, seldom extinguished.

---Francis Bacon

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The blow sent the slight girl crashing to the dusty earth with a shriek. Midii sat in the bracken of the forest floor and rubbed her sore arm. The lithe boy that had dealt the blow paced gracefully to her and silently offered a hand. Eyes averted, she let herself be helped to her feet where she was still a good half foot shorter than the boy.

"Midii," his voice was soft and low for a young boy, but that slight twinge of dry amusement wasn't lost on her, "tell me again why you think you need to learn this?"

"Fighting is something mercenaries should know," she bristled.

A minute smile really did touch his lips this time, "You're not a mercenary."

"I just…" the girl paused, looking away again and fidgeting with the game slung about her neck, "I want to help, is all."

The boy blinked, "You do."

"I scout and set up camp. But, they don't trust me near the mobile suits," she sighed, "And useless people are only tolerated for so long."

"You're safe with us, Midii," the boy reminded her, though the tone lacked actual comfort.

She glared at him, rubbing her arm again, "_You're_ safe, Nanashi. You're a boy, you can fight, take care of yourself, and the Captain basically adopted you."

He stared at her, impassive with long slow blinks, "Did I hurt your arm?"

"It doesn't matter," she rushed, hiding the arm behind her body a touch too quickly.

"Let me see."

She took a step back, "No."

Nanashi, as always, had moved before she even registered it, long limbs tangling her like vines. On reflex, even the weak, newly fostered reflexes they were, the girl dropped, broke the hold. She went for his legs and they met the ground together, hard. For a couple seconds they were a jumble of dark heavy clothes and fiery autumn leaves before the boy pinned little Midii to the forest floor.

Nanashi's lip was split, "You're improving."

"Let me go!" The girl was panicking, trapped and helpless, hands restraining her.

"No."

She went still, looking away as tears swelled, her voice small in defeat and fear, trembling, "Please let go…"

Nanashi felt the small frame beneath his cringe away into the leaves and dirt; saw the face turned away in resignation and disgust. He frowned slightly and sat up off to one side, observing her, but saying nothing. She sat up slowly, leaves and twigs in her hair and arms clutched about her. Slowly, tenderly, the boy reached for her arm, gently coaxing it free and its sleeve up to be examined. Deeply bruised wrists and a relocated shoulder were discovered marring the soft pink flesh, neither particularly recent, but certainly since they'd found her. Midii wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You're sleeping in the truck," the boy's voice hadn't changed, though the edge had been swapped for something sharp, still blandly surveying the damaged arm.

Midii gaped at him in horror, "I don't need special treatment."

"I take care of what I find," he replied calmly.

"You're a mercenary," she tried to remind him, or herself. Mercenaries were tough, mean, murdering monsters capable of untold evil. They were fiends, not men, and certainly not quiet boys with warm, gentle hands and vacant green eyes.

He nodded his reply, simple agreement of fact. She felt a palm on her palm, a soft grasp of fingers, but could neither look down, nor make her hand reciprocate.

"It's not fair, Nanashi."

He nodded again and they sat quietly for a time before heading back.

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**Hugglesbunny – **Yeah, these are going in numerical order for now. The idea for Wufei's fight was actually what started the whole thing, but it sort of took on a life of its own. Hope you enjoy and thanks, again!

**Anonymous Void – **Thank you kindly! Hope you enjoy the rest, even if without Duo's charms.

**Xardion **– Hope you liked it. Trowa was a fun change of pace for me. There should be plenty more to come, so don't worry.


	4. The Winner Heir VS Mr Winner

**The Winner Heir Versus The Head of the Family**

By APs

**A/N** – So, Quatre's turned out less gritty, but I'm chalking that up to how terribly civilized he is when he's not crazy, of course. Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

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Medicine to produce health must examine disease; and music, to create harmony must investigate discord.

---Plutarch

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His son was ready and waiting, gear secured, sword in hand, promptly at four o'clock local colonial time, just like every Tuesday and Thursday. As usual, the boy managed a wan smile with his greeting when he entered. Fencing had been one of the few subjects the head of the household had insisted upon imparting to his heir personally, in time honored family tradition. It was also one of the few subjects the boys seemed truly passionate about, though he seemed to excel at everything, anyway.

The father took his position opposite his son, sliding his guard over his face. The boy eagerly mirrored his actions and with a first tentative touch of steel, the dance began. Both players knew their parts.

"I've heard you have been spending a good deal of time with Instructor H," he managed easily between parries.

His son nodded, countering an obvious, sweeping slice, "It is my time to spend."

"He has our asylum, Quatre," he admonished, "I do not want you bothering him."

"He offered to tutor me," his son countered, stepping back to steady his footing.

The father pressed his advantage, "Are your lessons not adequate?"

"They are superb, but books are a sorry proxy for experience," the boy parried and countered.

"And is the Instructor imparting his experiences, or giving you your own?"

His son found it politic not to answer and they stared through crossed steel. The boy was so determined, his eyes ablaze and jaw set.

"You will cease your contact with him immediately," The head of the house commanded, breaking the stalemate.

"I will not," the boy came back with more force.

"Quatre," he growled, staggering to deflect an unscripted attack.

"No, Father," the boy advanced adamantly, "It was you who taught me that ignoring problems will not resolve them."

The Father pushed back, refusing to cede ground, "Needlessly compounding a problem is not resolution."

"Yet, it is our responsibility to make people see their error."

Steel flashed between the two, rang loud and dissonant without cadence. The Patriarch ground his teeth, "Doing so by force only serves to blind!"

"Inaction is collusion!" The Heir thrust.

"War is murder," the Father riposted neatly.

The son faltered, sweeping wide, clumsy and dangerous, "I refuse to be sheltered while others die for nothing!"

"You would rather do the meaningless dying?" The Father hissed as a counter left his arm throbbing from the blow's force.

"I would rather no one died! I would rather people would come to their senses! I would rather to not need to face this pain and insanity!" Form was abandoned to pure ferocity as voice rose above ringing steel. "I would rather it end!"

The Father stared straight into his Son's eyes as the boy made a savage thrust. He dropped his guard and planted his feet. The foil stopped over his heart with the lightest of touches. The boy stood frozen in horror. The Father dropped his weapon, "Then someone must have the courage to stop first."

The Head of the Family walked away and that was the last of the Winner Heir's fencing lessons.

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**Hugglesbunny** – I don't know why, but, tonally, I always have the hardest time with Trowa and Quatre. Thanks, again!


	5. A Young Scholar VS His Wife

A Young Scholar Versus His Wife

By APs

**A/N** – First, sorry about the delay, but I did say there was no guaranteed update schedule for these. Second, this is *not* the end of this collection, though it is the last pre-series one. I haven't decided if I want to do other characters, yet. Let me know what you guys think!

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

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When valor preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with.

_--ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA__, Act 3, Scene 13_

----William Shakespeare

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A shadow fell across the young scholar's face and he looked up with a dull sigh. He stood, taking the glasses from his nose, and faced the proud warrior, whose dark, silken pigtails danced on the slight breeze of the warm colonial afternoon. He inclined his head briefly; the other nodded sharply in reply and fell into a solid stance. Her eyes boldly declared him a coward.

Bodies clashed in the flowered field. Dark eyes flashed as the warrior bit back a hiss that her partner noted anyway. The frown deepened on his face, but he kept silent. Every argument he had, she knew, intimately. He had made himself hoarse with them the first week of the defeated warrior's daily rematches. Three weeks had passed now and they no longer needed to speak the words. That frown pronounced her weak.

She forced a growl and lunged again. Her partner didn't dodge, never dodged. He stood, placid as a pond's surface, and flowed about her motions, used them against her. His palm on her arm, electric, and she was stumbling to the side, the river around the rock. He snorted, dismissive.

She spun, faster than normal, spurred by that sound of derision and her partner stepped back to block. The river had moved the rock and the river smirked. Not so weak. The rock set his jaw, rolling with the motion, snapped a kick. Blocking numbed the warrior's arm. He scowled at her. There was no logic to this. She smiled. He could keep his logic.

The scowl turned to an admonishing glare. The warrior bristled. He could keep his chastisement, also. The warrior surged forward. He flowed with her, about her. Arm about her arm, hand on her stomach, she felt his warmth, a hint of his scent, breath on her cheek. Then there was air… Landing in the grass was a familiar pain by now.

She gazed up through flower petals as he replaced his glasses, hair barely even mussed. The warrior stood under his dark, critical gaze, relishing the chill left by the brief but searing touches. She bowed and turned.

His voice stopped her, tingling up her spine, "Meiran--"

"Nataku," she amended without turning. She had renounced her name, his name since the marriage.

He made a small noise of frustration, "This is pointless."

"Hardly," a smirk crossed her dirty face.

"I am stronger," the flat certainty in his voice matched the dull look that had returned to his eyes.

"I fight for Justice," she reiterated, "not petty Actualities."

She saw the ripple of aggravation that touched his placid features. Felt it mirrored in her heart. His brow creased as he attempted to read her like one of his many books from behind his glasses, "That's ridiculous."

"Perhaps," she murmured into the soft breeze. The flowers and her pigtails fluttered.

"Something intended to create has no business in destruction." He never dodged. Women shouldn't fight. Insulting, but nearly endearing when presented with the level of exasperation he was currently displaying. It could almost be mistaken for concern.

"There is no creation without destruction, Wufei."

He sighed, face resuming that serene aloofness, denoting the end of his attention and her dismissal.

She watched as he sat back on the grass with his book, "I refuse to let what is blind me to what should be."

Dark eyes glanced up briefly, "Do as you please."

She nodded and walked away. Tomorrow. Rematch twenty-three. Tomorrow she would prove herself and they would sit in the flowers together. Tomorrow they would change the world together.

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**Schizoid Sprite **– Ep. Zero behind the scenes! Haha! I hadn't thought of it that way, but that's great and absolutely dead on! Thanks for the kind words! (And I love Meiran, too.)

**Dyna Dee **– Thank you kindly! It's always nice to hear I haven't butchered the boys' personalities. Don't fret, there's more to come.

**Xardion** – Haha! Glad you were happily surprised. Thanks, again!


	6. The Masked Cadet VS The Salutatorian

The Masked Cadet Versus The Salutatorian

By APs

**A/N** – Midterms tried to murder me… Anyway, I've decided to keep this series focused on the pilots. That being said, this chapter is _not_ about the pilots. Suggestions made me realize I have never actually written Zechs or Noin before. So, it got me thinking, which is dangerous, and gave me an idea for a separate fic. However, I wanted to try something short to see if I could actually do it, thus you get this. I want input, so don't be shy.

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

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"Lost causes are the only ones worth fighting for."  
--- Clarence Darrow

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Zechs Marquise was the gangliest son of a bitch at Lake Victoria Academy. He proved it with maddening persistence every time Cadet Noin got within grappling range. She swore those arms stretched. Of course, she herself was a veritable bag of corners, which made ensnaring her a sad prospect in itself. They broke away clean and commenced secondary evaluations. Noin smiled.

"Get serious," the platinum blonde growled at her. They gauged each other carefully. That mask put Noin at a definite disadvantage, but Zechs had his tells. She was the only one he challenged consistently enough to see them, though. Their classmates were all busy with their own matches, at the moment, granting them a modicum of privacy they usually didn't enjoy.

"When aren't I?" She was smirking as she danced in, showering quick, probing strikes. His defense was adequate, solid and strong. She fluttered about the vines a beat too long and once again found herself tangled.

His lips found her ear, the cool mask against her hair, "Stop letting me win, Noin."

A sharp elbow buried in his stomach rebutted nicely, she felt. He came around to plant a heel in her face, but she dropped, sweeping his supports. He managed to stay up, natural grace making it look easy, making it look damned good. Noin just grinned once he'd actually regained his footing.

"Come on, Noin!" A frown came crashing back onto her face as the catcalls started. Without looking, she knew the other young nobles were already crowding around, neglecting their own training.

"Put that hick in his place!"

"Yeah! Show him how a real noble fights!" The fighters let it roll off them like water, the eye of the proverbial storm. Zechs moved first. The crowd cheered with every attack Noin rebuffed, booed and hissed at her every advance thwarted. It made her blood boil, she started to push harder, tune them out. Focus, she told herself. Focus on Zechs. Try to forget that they're jealous of him, that he's Instructor Khushrenada's inexplicable favorite. She focused on Zechs, the poor country noble that hid his face, conducted himself with stoic honor, and treated her with respect.

And there it was, plain as day. Even through the mask, she knew he saw it, the hole in his defense, the smallest of overreaches. Time slowed and eyes met, should have, at least. She didn't move. Then, she was on the mat, counting lights. That was going to leave a bruise. Disappointed groans were marking the disbursement of their spectators. They could shove it. He was still there when she finally moved, waiting.

"Why didn't you take it?" That voice of his, tragedy soft and surgical steel sharp, always caught her attention. There was knowledge to it.

She smiled, "Good match."

He blinked. She didn't know how she knew, but she knew he had blinked. Judging from his hair, his eyes had to be light and suddenly, she wanted to see them. His voice sliced through her thoughts, "Fight me, again."

"Class is over, Zechs," she sighed. Everyone had already left the practice area to get ready for diner. If you were late, you didn't eat. Academy life.

"I know," he didn't shift, didn't move. He wasn't going to let this go, everything Noin knew about him told her that much.

She checked for faculty, weighing her options, "If I win, you take off the mask."

He froze and she could almost hear the buzz of his brain working overtime. Jaw set, he scrutinized her, body and soul. Those hidden eyes burned, but she stared evenly back. Finally, he relaxed, "Fine."

A smile swept back across her lips, igniting something new in her dark eyes. She had never dreamed he'd actually accept. It meant she hadn't misread him, "Your terms?"

"Stop holding back," he flowed back to a ready stance, grace covering teenaged awkwardness.

Limbering pointy joints and stretching wiry muscle, she settled into a tiny smirk, "Fine."

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**Schizoid Sprite** – Meiran and Wufei really are one of my favorite tragic couples. I'm happy you liked it and plan to keep reading! What'd you think of Zechs?

**Patriot16** – Well, was it? Thanks for reading!

**Bunch-o-Nuts** – My plan is to have five 'matches' per time frame (that is, pre-war, war, and post-war). They didn't know each other for this first set, but from here on out it should just be them. Thanks for reading.

**Hugglesbunny** – Thank you.


	7. ZeroFive VS ZeroThree

Pilot Zero-Five Versus Pilot Zero-Three

By APs

**A/N** – Happy Halloween! No, this installment isn't particularly creepy, but I wanted to say it anyway. Thank everyone for making the last chapter my new record for reviews! Your feedback is always a treat!

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

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The best weapon against an enemy is another enemy.

---Friedrich Nietzsche

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He'd been out here for hours, attempting to practice, but only succeeding in working himself into more of a rage. The circus was asleep nearby, but there was no peace for him after such a failure. Sweat was cold on his skin like predawn dew and his muscles were screaming as he worked through forms with ferocity bordering on desperation. Spared. He had had the man, the very fiend, and been defeated without a single blow. He growled, starting over.

A shadow launched itself at him from a tree. He stepped back to block in surprise, but grit his teeth in instant disgust and lunged forward. The fight consumed him, blinded him with fury. The figure was fast and careful. They were a blur, wrath and shadow. The first blow that landed made his body sing out a higher pitch of pain. He leaned into the next one and pushed his strikes harder. The figure answered back with pure efficiency, upping power without sacrificing maneuverability. Tall and withy, his opponent used range and flexibility like some damned snake. Just as cold blooded, too. A patch of moonlight caught impassive emerald through the figure's hair, confirming his growing suspicions.

With a snarl, he advanced and kept advancing, purely offensive, crowding the taller boy, negating the advantage. The other pilot dug in, abandoning long ranged caution to strike with more savage precision. Each beat seared, burned. He could taste blood. The other didn't make a sound, never even flinched, mocked his efforts with that calm silence. His breath was ragged, each move fresh agony. This was over.

His body screamed. He screamed, throwing himself against the other. Digging deeper inside, to depths of fire and pain and rage that numbed. No form, no thought, he brought everything to bear. Eyes met, genuine surprise flashed in cold emerald.

And his legs went, his frame crumpled. There was simply nothing left. He felt the ground bite into his knees. It took him too long to realize a painfully firm hand on his shoulder was keeping him from toppling the rest of the way into the dirt. He looked up at the other, unable to glare much less shrug off the hand. Emerald eyes stared down curiously, bangs not an issue at such an angle, a bruise slowly forming on his jaw line clashing with his placidity. He couldn't help the tiny smirk as he sat heavily.

"Finished?" The tone was grey enough that that may not have actually been a question. It wasn't the first time the other had spoken, but it was indicatively laconic.

He felt fire rekindle in his chest, his eyes, "No."

The taller pilot watched him, searched him, then nodded as though he'd found what he'd been looking for.

Dark eyes turned away, unable to face that neutral calm as he felt himself sink into the darkness of the silence, "You should find a stronger opponent"

The taller boy considered him, as he had been since the duel. It was at once distant and invasive, "Feel better?"

His face darkened, but he had to admit, as the bruises set in and the blood dried, he at least felt appropriate and exhaustion was starting to lull him.

The other nodded again.

"I have no right fighting this war," he reaffirmed.

The other boy arched a brow, cracking the lines of dried blood on his face, "You caught the New Edwards Base switch."

The laugh he forced out was rang hollow, abrasive, "It was obvious."

"Not to anyone else," he turned and walked away, moving gingerly, with the slightest of limps.

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karina001 – I believe you've already found 'You I Us We', but thank you very much for the kind words, yet again.

Windwraith – That's certainly the direction I was going with it. Thanks.

Patriot16 – Many thanks! Treize and Une, hm? We'll see. I might come up with something.

Hugglesbunny – That's always been the attraction. You word it perfectly. Thanks, again!

Schizoid Sprite – Thank you kindly! 'You I Us We' isn't specifically the cadet years, but I wanted to cover a bit of ground. Treize/Dorothy is an intriguing idea… I'll see what strikes my fancy.

Xardion – But we can infer and really, in my brain it wasn't much of a fight. It's not nice to embarrass characters that badly. Thanks!


	8. ZeroFour VS ZeroTwo

Zero-Four Versus Zero-Two

By APs

**A/N** – Well, that took longer than I thought it would. Q always seems to give me trouble.

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

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I have been, and will go on, fighting that damnable, dirty, rotten business with all the power at my command.

---Billy Sunday

* * *

The American was agitated. Actually, they were both agitated, and not without reason, but his companion's disposition had been rapidly declining ever since they had left the Maganac village. The thought of the village alone was enough to make the blonde's own heart ache with worry and watching his comrade sink into depression certainly didn't help. True, it was an odd sort of depression that set your teeth on edge with every sardonic smile, but that was beside the point.

The villa he had secured for them was nice, which seemed to chafe his braided companion more than their two arduous, tense weeks spent evading capture and laying false trails. The boy stalked about, a lion in a cage made all the worst by its gilding, apparently. Even his laughter had gone bitter, though he was careful to keep laughing. The banter had dwindled, though. There were times where they simply sat in complete silence, like now. Not for the first time, he missed his music. He missed the duets.

With a sigh, he reached out a hand to rest on the other's shoulder, but a blur of motion and a purely reflexive counter later found the blonde blinking wide-eyed and locked in a dead even grapple. A smirk like a knife ran across the other boy's face, genuine, if a touch maniac, as he pushed slightly, challenging. The blonde smiled back, broke the grip and went for the other's legs.

Light and fast, they were similar in build. Dance, grapple, dance, grapple, they chased each other, keen eyes flashing opposite blues. A shift of weight, a twist of the wrist, a flash of the eye, they moved together, step for step. There was no plan, no time, just action and reaction, blind and immediate. He was fast, but the American was faster, wiry and slick. The braided boy laughed as he slipped effortlessly from his grasp, like so much shifting sand through clenched fingers. The crushing grip on his upper arm was all the warning the blonde received before he was hitting the cool floor and rolling to a crouch against the far wall.

He laughed and rubbed his shoulder, "Okay, you win."

The darker boy's face fell, the humor and even his color draining instantly from him, "It's not about winning."

"What?"

The American looked away, grinding his teeth, and growled, "Winning isn't really the point."

The blonde stood, frowning, "Are you alright?"

"No," dark blue eyes snapped back to his, "This whole situation is… Our odds were always crap. One less of us, even if it hadn't been that guy… I mean, if he couldn't… Just crap."

"Like you said, it was never about winning," the blonde offered in a soft mummer, focusing intently on unbuttoning his torn dress shirt.

"Doesn't make it any less shitty," the braided pilot drawled, running a hand through his bangs.

He watched the other from where he stood in undershirt and khakis, "You know, we /were/ ordered to surrender…"

It hung between them, dust in a sunbeam, before the other seemed to catch the implications. The braided boy's face darkened, even as a smile shot across his lips, "And give up the chance to pay back OZ for their dirty tricks?"

A shiver crept up the blonde's spine despite the desert heat. He bit his lip and turned to leave, twiddling the torn fabric in his fingers, but paused. Casting bright blue eyes backwards, he neatly put the shirt across the back of a chair and took a few steps into the middle of the room, "Care to go again?"

Sharp eyes burned into him, but the smile widened, becoming lopsided, less threatening. Dark fabric rustled as he sank to a more solid starting position, "Ready and willing, pretty boy."

The blonde laughed, already calculating the next round. He wouldn't be caught unprepared again and he knew the other was done playing games. They smirked at each other, waiting for the slightest opening. They were ready for it.

* * *

Xardion – I'm glad you enjoyed it. I tend to switch gears rather abruptly with these little ones.

Bunch-o-Nuts – Thank you. I was worried about the shift, so I'm happy to hear it worked. Trowa always struck me as one of the few people who could manage to make Wufei speechless.


	9. ZeroThree VS ZeroOne

**Zero-Three Versus Zero-One**

By APs

**A/N** – This takes place after the Antarctic battle with Zechs.

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are appreciated! Don't be shy.

* * *

The omission of good is no less reprehensible than the commission of evil.

---Plutarch

* * *

The cockpit opened with a hiss and he tumbled from it with relief that was immeasurably great, if unexpressed. The flight type Gundam was an admirable machine, as elegant as brutal, just alien. It did nothing for his paranoia, much like seeing his own battered suit on the monitors. A noise from behind had him training a gun on his companion, who stared back, intense azure through sweaty bangs, right hand clamped over free bleeding bandages on his left bicep.

Something flared in his chest at the sight, over and above everything he'd been quiet about over their travels. It had been there while he stood aside, through coma, penitence, and folly. It had grown and he had ignored it, until now. Something had broken, a switch pulled. He was attacking before he could name it, pistol sailing off to the side, forgotten. The other boy dodged, blinking in confusion until a blow landed, on the wound, calculated, precise. Teeth ground as a growl escaped. He pressed the shorter pilot harder, targeting the weak areas he had painstakingly tended for so long.

"Stop it," the other grunted, blocking a punch that would make his arm numb anyway.

"Why should I?" He felt himself murmur, unable to stop his small frown, "If this is what you're after, I'll save you the trouble of hunting down anyone else."

"You're angry," the other boy was panting now, dodging, blocking, favoring his injuries.

Emerald eyes narrowed. Maybe he was, maybe he was just frustrated or lost or battle frenzied, though. It wasn't a question, so not having an answer didn't matter. Convenient. Everything was adrenaline clear and strobe light fast. He was starting to ache, trembling even as he struck. Protracted battles did him no favors, old wounds.

"This is meaningless," the blue eyed boy leveled at him, grunting as another shot of blinding pain exploded from his arm at the hands of an ally.

He couldn't stop the laugh; it came out strangled and surprised, like a baby's first noise, like all of his laughter. A fist like a brick wall cut it short, twisting him to the side, down. A knee drove into his chest, up, back. A kick sent him sailing. He hit the ground and rolled, coming to his feet and a hand, a crouched tripodal slide to a stop. He tasted blood, shaking, hard to breath. He wasn't sure he could stand, but he'd fight if necessary, it's what he did. He looked up and waited.

The other pilot was glaring at him over gun sights, red dripping from the finger of his left hand, "We're done."

"Hardly." Slowly, as much for himself as the other's benefit, he drew his limbs in and stood, placid as ever, everything hurt, like usual, "Shoot if you're going to."

Intense, deep blue glared, machinations, binary. Simple, thorough 'if, then' logics whirring at top speed. Nothing happened. Apparently, his companion was disinclined to pull the trigger. He wondered what those blue eyes saw.

"Live by your emotions," he stated, stepping forward as precisely as he would on a tightrope, hands in his pockets. His chest near abutted the barrel before the other retreated out of arm's reach. He stopped, "Shoot."

The glare deepened, but nothing happened.

"One of the others said we need each other," he offered to the other.

"You believe that?"

He didn't even twitch a muscle, "I pulled you out of Siberia and you won't shoot me, now. The only thing dying would do is make it easier on OZ."

The other stared at him for a long, silent moment. The blue eyed guy always needed to process things, he knew that, took no offense as he was broken down and carefully weighed. The gun was lifted, safety clicked on, "Understood."

He started toward Heavyarms, pacing past the other boy, "Next time, let's not try to kill each other."

"Hm," the other paused. Intense azure shifted to him, oblique, unsure, "Take care of yourself."

He stopped, half turning to blink at the other pilot and finally nodded, "You too."

The other nodded back, grave and serious as a heart attack, then turned his back and ran for his suit. Watching the other go, he couldn't stop the small smirk that touched his rapidly swelling lips. He didn't even try.

* * *

Coldfiredragon – Well, there you have it. Thank you for your kind words.

Xardion – It's all in the balancing, I've found. Bad*ss and emotionally open is a hard sell for me (much like balancing cold killer and world weary Trowa), but I'm practicing. Glad you liked it, though.


	10. ZeroTwo VS ZeroFive

**Zero-Two Versus Zero-Five**

By APs

**A/N** – Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are appreciated!

* * *

He that is taken and put into prison or chains is not conquered, though overcome; for he is still an enemy.

---Thomas Hobbes

* * *

No cameras. That had been the first thing the two others had told him when he'd been tossed in with them, after taunting him about getting caught, of course. Naturally, he hadn't taken their word for it, but after a couple days to recover and a few more scrounging, he had to agree. No cameras and no listening devices, just bare metal, vents, and a door. Hell, there weren't even lights by which to record anything. Apparently, OZ had decided the best way to deal with them was to throw them in a hole and forget. He had to admit, they'd come up with worse plans.

"Dammit," he growled, letting his head fall back against the wall. His everything ached like nobody's business, but that was normal, he could deal with that. It was the stiffness, the pain from lack of motion and welling anticipation that was starting to get to him, working into his brain, under his skin.

"What?" the voice that drifted from the darkness was cold and uninterested, arrogant. Their third, his friend if he could call him that, was away test piloting, lucky bastard. He could imagine the other sitting cross legged exactly where he had been when the door had hissed shut on his friend and their 'traitor'; imagined dark eyes looking toward him in the darkness, black on black.

"Nothing," he snorted, thumbing his nose and sliding his palm under his bangs, "Just rusting my ass away. Don't know how you do all this sitting still bullshit."

"Then move," and he was dismissed, just like that.

"Oh, come on," he drawled, getting to his feet with a stretch, "You can't tell me you're not cramping up. You've been folded like a goddamn pretzel for days." The darkness didn't reply and he felt a grin slip to his lips like a gun to his fingers, disturbingly comfortable. His mental map guided him silently to the other's position, approaching from behind. He paused, senses straining for the dimmest signs of motion. A muted breathe escaping, barely even a sound, caught his ear and he pounced.

The darkness slid against him and he stumbled to the side with a grunt. He clamped his mouth shut and dodged. The kick only hit his trailing braid. He threw an elbow. Connected.

A growl was his only warning. Twisting, a fist breezed past his cheek. They danced. Every noise brought a strike, every footfall, every hissed breathe. They danced in the dark, black on black.

He paused, panting silently, ears strained. Silk whispered by, he swung. Connected, sailed through the empty jacket. Sneaky bastard. Then he was hit by a truck. Hacking, he doubled over, lungs working hard to regain what had been forced out, but refused to go down.

"Are you hurt?" The question drifted over, casual, arrogant.

He couldn't stop the laughter, even if it hurt, "You kicked me in the chest."

"Then you're fine," there was a definite smirk on that statement.

He laughed again, taking a few deep breathes, "So you haven't given up, eh?"

The darkness snorted, "No."

"Good," that grin like a gun rippled through him once more as he shook out the last of his stiffness, "This time I won't be gentle, then."

* * *

**Justanotheranimefreak – **Trowa tends to give me trouble, so it's good to hear you liked it.


	11. ZeroOne VS ZeroFour

**Zero-One Versus Zero-Four**

By APs

**A/N** – So, ridiculous part of my life is over, which means I can stop neglecting the internet. Trying to get back into the swing of things. Sorry to everyone that was waiting.

Thank you for reading. Please enjoy! Reviews are nice, too!

* * *

Can you imagine what I would do if I could do all I can?

---Sun Tzu

* * *

He found the blond sitting in the music room, starring at the keys of the piano before him. Again. Fourth time in as many days. Stepping inside, he locked the big, solid doors behind him. The soft click echoed through the large, empty, acoustically formed room, drawing the other's gaze. He recognized pain, old pain in those soft eyes.

"What were you going to play?" he found himself asking when the blond didn't speak.

"I-" light blue eyes shifted back to the keys, "Nothing, just a duet I can't quite remember anymore."

He stopped in the middle of the room, "Duets require two players."

"Yeah," the other agreed grudgingly. Silence echoed off the walls, muffling the birdsong and sunshine through the leaded windows. Finally, the fairer boy stood from the bench, "I can't remember and I can't quite forget."

"Why don't you just play?" Pale blue eyes turned toward him as the blond paced up to him in the center of the room. The other paused, searching his usual harsh expression with a hint of confusion.

"I don't think I can anymore," he whispered before stepping past him, heading for the door.

He clamped a single hand about the blond's wrist, "Or, maybe you just need a counterpoint."

The blond barely had time to blink in confusion before a fist breezed past his cheek. He leered through dark bangs, but the pale boy seemed frozen, so he attacked. He pushed. The blond scrambled, dodged, called his name, screamed that they shouldn't be fighting.

"We're not," he replied, challenging even in its neutrality. He snapped a kick at the blond's side, who blocked, twisted, pushed him off balance. When he'd recovered, pale blue eyes had sharpened. He grunted and lunged again. The blond remained stubbornly defensive, but this time something was different. There was rhythm, purpose. The other blocked more than dodged, moved little, didn't lose ground, but gave it. Keen, pale blue eyes dissecting.

Soft, ragged breath mixed with matching, irregular footfalls in the sun streaked air to fill the perfect acoustic silence. Then the blond clamped down on his leg. Blue met blue for an instant. He twisted, the blond met him with a knee. He countered and felt an elbow dig into his ribs. He punched, but found a fist lightly brush his jaw. He grappled only to find himself on his back, gasping to refill his lungs.

The blond was staring at him with those soft pale blue eyes again, "What was the point of that?"

"We can't afford to fear ourselves." He stayed sprawled on the floor in the dappled light.

The blond started toward the door again, "We fear what we can't control."

He stood, dusting off his barely rumbled school uniform, "You didn't hurt me."

The soft click of the lock sounded clearly, but pale blue eyes cast back a single glance from the doorway. Then the blond was gone.

* * *

**windwraith** – I do enjoy my similes. 'That grin like a gun' was a reference to an earlier description of his grin and, yes, I was taken with the alliteration, too. Thanks for reading!

**Hugglesbunny** – Thanks a lot!

**Xardion** – If you got a laugh out of it, then my job here is done. Thanks, again!


	12. His Excellency Versus The Lady

**His Excellency Versus The Lady**

by APs

**A/N** – Thus ends the war section of our program. Yeah, I couldn't resist taking a swing at these two. Not really sure how I did. I needed something quick and fiddly to make my mind switch tracks after a long day, so you guys get another little fight.

Reviews are always encouraged. They let me know how I'm doing and if you want more, so don't be shy! I don't bite.

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Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime.

-Ernest Hemingway

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She was not at all surprised to see the foil in her superior's hand when she entered the room and snapped off a clipped salute. He was an elegant silhouette against the large windows, which were themselves sheets of dazzling summer light. It was the graceful toss of said foil in her direction that caught her off guard, making her scramble and stoop to catch the handle. She opened her mouth to smirk something about being more careful to be silenced by another sword singing its freedom and challenge at being unsheathed.

She straightened with care, adjusting her large round glasses. He was facing her now, she could feel his eyes on her from the shadowed form. His blade rose and fell in a smart salute which she found herself returning automatically.

He moved first, lunging, and suddenly color returned to him. The ferocity jarred her more than the actual attack. Her world was suddenly very blue and clashing steel and scrutiny. Her every action was weighed, valued, noted, and judged in so casual a manner as to belie the thoroughness of inspection. Yet, she was irked.

She pushed forward, bringing the battle to him. Letting him know aggression would not be met without response. He did not retreat, though it did halt his advance.

Her blows glanced off his blade with infuriating easy, meaningless as the excuses she had prepared. Something drained from her, the affronts becoming weakly halfhearted.

The flash of disappointment in blue eyes made her cheek sting anew. She slashed. Sudden. Vicious.

It snapped the edge back to his eyes. They shuffled, swords singing against each other.

She feinted and cut and riposted and thrust and glided and parried in earnest. She worked against him with everything she knew to the very best of her ability.

He would not be moved. A small smirk lit his face and she couldn't help feeling peevish at being laughed at, even fondly. Especially fondly. It stung. More than the nonchalance of his defense or his refusal to make any serious advance.

Panting. Spent. She grit her teeth. Pulse pounding in her ears. The sight of him, calm, sacrosanct, smirking, made her ache. Filth itching under her pristine skin. Words burning the tip of her tongue. His. For him. She thrust. Not bothering to feint. She threw everything behind it and then some. Rage and sorrow. White hot pain flashed across her knuckles. She pushed through. Noting his hesitation, but not heeding it. She drove home, sending cape and epaulette flying. Rending fabric. Slicing skin. Drawing blood.

With a sudden gasp, she dropped her foil, sinking to a knee. Horrified, she barely noticed when the tip of his blade settled on her throat.

The white glove of his off hand went lightly to the wound and he examined the crimson stain as he undoubtedly had the rose in his lapel, "First blood to you, Lady."

"Y- Your Excellency," she managed, though unsure exactly how.

The point was withdrawn and a hand extended with a smile she had no way to interpret, "Ceding the match after you've won is ill advised."

She reached wordlessly for his hand, but stopped at the sight of her own. The glove and the skin on her knuckles had been sheered away trailing small rivulets of red twining down her fingers. For a long moment, she just stared and finally stood on her own. "Yes, sir."

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**Xardion** – Indeed. Trust Heero to prove a point that way. Thanks!

**Mistress of Darkness** – Thank you very kindly. It's always nice to hear that people enjoy these.


	13. A Transient VS The Regular

**A Transient Versus The Regular**

by APs

**A/N** – Hi there. Seems about time I got back into these, so here you go. First of the post war matches. Not sure how it is, honestly. I haven't decided if I'll do another non-pilot match at the end, but I'm willing to hear suggestions. Maybe one will catch my fancy.

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. . . no battle is ever won . . . they are not even fought. The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and Victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

-William Faulkner (The Sound and the Fury)

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The heel found his face before the back door of his favorite, crappy dive bar banged closed behind them. Spinning back with it, a fist breezed past his nose. His forearm flashed up on pure reflex to catch the second kick like a spike through the bone. Finally, he lashed back. Hitting air inches from the lithe body.

"Shit!"

Green eyes smirked. Long powerful legs flew, peppered with sharp jabs. He snared a grin with bloodied teeth. The answering blow smashed him back into rough brick. He pushed off, ignoring inertia and the skin he left behind. Launched for the other's stomach. Stumbled. It wasn't there. A faint landing tap from behind and he hit the dirt. The kick snapped his braid to the side. Spinning, blind, he swept the other's legs. Shooting to his feet as the lithe body collapsed, he stomped hard. His foot was caught, jerked.

He met concrete, hard. Long legs tangled his, weight on his chest. Fist hammered face, once, twice. He caught the thin wrist, twisting and kicked. Long limbs trailed as the lithe body flew overhead. He scrambled round. Grabbing, wrenching, clawing. A withy arm slipped around his neck and he dropped his chin, sinking teeth in deep. It pressed further into his jaws, forcing them open and chocking. He sputtered and the arm tore from his mouth. Breath brushed his neck and he jerked his back, smashing what felt like nose.

He swung an elbow back and ribs bent. Kicking free, they fell over each other. Knees and hands and scrapes and fists. He claimed the bitten arm and yanked it into a bar, tumbling until he managed to scissor it between his legs. They sprawled against a dumpster, straining in near silence.

He smiled, "We done, or you want me to snap your arm?"

Green eyes stared at him over the long, broken nose, actually considering the question. Considering whether he'd really do it. He held the fine hand and willowy wrist tight, torquing it ever so slightly. The distinct pop in the silence was just as surprising as the jagged yelp it ripped from the taller man's lips.

He released the arm gently as possible, "Shit, man, you okay?"

The other just laid for a long moment, green eyes screwed closed. Slowly, shakily, the taller man stood. The voice that came from the unsteady body was jarringly even, "Dislocated. It does that sometimes. Sorry."

"It's alright. What do I do?"

The other held up his good hand, taking a deep breath. Then he rammed his shoulder into the dumpster. A long fingered hand clenched the bin's edge for support when strong legs buckled under hot agony. For stretching moments, the only noise in the alley was pain hitched breathing. When the taller man finally straightened, pale and trembling, green eyes avoided him behind a curtain of bangs.

"When'd that happen?" His voice seemed hushed, even to himself. Low and dark.

A green eye slid to his. He knew perfectly well when. It was the same answer as when he'd gotten all his wounds and weak spots. The same when he'd accumulated his skills and nightmares. The when that had taken more than its fair toll on their young bodies. Neither felt particularly inclined to say it out loud, though.

He spat blood, "Hell, we won."

"Hate to see the losers."

It was so deadpan, all he could do was laugh. Mostly because he didn't want to, not at all. That was when he laughed the hardest. Wiping away tears and blood, he chortled, "C'mon, I'll buy you another drink. How long you in town?"

"Only tonight. I didn't know you were here."

"Nobody does. That's the point."

They stared at each other, but green eyes didn't flinch. Done was done.

He shrugged and grinned, making toward the bar door, "Next time you're buying."

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**Xardion** – Yes, I was trying to keep that infuriating easy to his action. I'll take your rant to mean it worked. I actually really like Une and the dynamic between those two is oddly compelling. Thanks for reading!

**Hugglesbunny** – Thank you and here it is.


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